


Checkpoint

by YellowWomanontheBrink



Series: 30 Crossovers Challenge [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Gen, kinkfromuncle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 14:46:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11602812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowWomanontheBrink/pseuds/YellowWomanontheBrink
Summary: When the designer of the Death Star, Udo Teller, goes missing, the Rebel Alliance hires the galaxy's most efficient smuggler, Napoleon Solo, to rescue Gaby Teller from Imperial control.





	Checkpoint

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my 30 Crossovers. Doesn't completely fill the prompt, but I will probably continue this once I'm done with my WIP Thorfics. 
> 
> Prompt here: http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=593536

Gaby was immediately suspicious of the well-dressed spacer.  
  
He strolled into the hangar with swagger and confidence, fingers looped through his neat cut and well-fitted trousers-- utterly impractical for a spacer, she thought, there no way you could conceal a vibroblade in those-- blaster concealed in his fashionable black cloak. He was a spacer-- he walked and talked and certainly flew his ship with all the experience that a well-employed spacer had, so whatever his cover story was, he was certainly a spacer before he took whatever task he was employed to do.  
  
But it was definitely a cover, of this she was certain. Something in the back of her mind, her instinct, told her so.  
  
Gaby Teller was a woman who listened to her instinct. More often than not, it turned out well enough.  
  
"Little big for a small woman like you, eh?" he asked, glancing all around the hangar, eyes barely lingering on the various tools and detritus lying about the chop shop.  
  
"If you're not going to buy anything," she said dryly from her seat behind the counter, pretending she was entirely engrossed by a disassembled power converter before her, "get out. Unless there's something wrong with your ship?"  
  
"Nothing wrong," he said, eyes lingering on the various projects she had lying around, some half-finished, some gleaming and begging to be flown. "I'm looking for an upgrade for my ship is all, and word around town has it that you're the best"  
  
She glanced quickly over the vehicle he'd arrived in. It was one of the newer models of the YT-Corellian class-- sleek, fast, spacious ships. Practical and bare-boned, YT-class ships tended to be some of the more personalized ships flying their way across the galaxy. Valued by the poor, and disdained as hunks of junk by the wealthy. The one he'd flown in on was practically gleaming.  
  
"Bit new for an upgrade," she replied, "And it's outfitted with the best engines that can be found in the empire, and an ion cannon of all things. I doubt upgrades are what you're truly here for."  
  
He had made his way to the far end of the shop by then, gracefully sliding into a chair. "I'm in the shipping business."  
  
She snorted. "Alderaan's out of your way, isn't it, smuggler?" Alderaan had been blockaded for three years now, ever since the Rebellion bastion on Dantooine was crushed. Once a center of learning, enlightenment, and ancient history of the Republic, Alderaan had become little more than a warning to the other powerful states in the galaxy-- rebel, and be destroyed utterly. No one could bypass the Imperial checkpoints, except for the illicit traders allowed in under-the-table by the moffs.  
  
He looked up, face perfectly straight. "A bit." His hands danced over the wires of the disassembled navigation droid she'd been commissioned for a week ago. "I have an offer that you'll want to hear."  
  
Finally making eye contact with him, Gaby scowled. "I doubt that."  
  
His eyebrow cocked as if to daringly whisper, 'oh?'. Leaning back, a picture of poise and confidence, he intoned, "I can get you past the Imperial checkpoints."  
  
Her grip on her multi-tool faltered. "Who are you and what do you want?"  
  
Thankfully, he remained solemn. Gaby didn't think she would have been able to resist whipping her blaster up and shooting him if he'd smirked. Instead, he reached within his cloak to his utility belt and withdrew a sheet of flimsiplast.  
  
"My party is interested in retrieving your father, and you're going to help me do it," he stared her down.  
  
"My father is dead." Gunned down trying to bypass the Alderaan checkpoint, he'd been the one to leave her his shop. She hated him a little for running.   
  
He cocked his head like a curious animal. "I'm not talking about your foster father. I'm talking about your real father, Udo Teller. The emperor's favorite weapons designer. He's designed every new death machine we've been killing each other with for the last thirty years."  
  
"Well, that's not very nice," her grip tightened on her blaster under the table when he huffed. "Besides, you're out of luck. I haven't seen my father in eighteen years."  
  
"That’s a shame," he slid the flimsiplast across the table, and Gaby looked down at a picture of her father, older than she'd ever known him, smiling at the holo camera shyly, surrounded by a group of strangers, a fat Alderaanian mastiff curled at his feet. "He was living the good life out in Stewjon when the Imperials seized him three years ago."  
  
Her heart stuttered, and she quickly met his eyes. "Which one is supposed to be my father?"  
  
"Very funny."  
  
She leaned away, her grip rearranging on the blaster. "I don't know him. I can't help you; I'm no Rebel."  
  
His eyes darted down, then left, and Gaby's spine tingled uncomfortably as he stood, rearranging the buttons on his noble vest. "Unfortunately for you, neither am I. You might've have been safer if I were." Something snapped beneath his shiny leather boots; Gaby didn't look down to see what it was.  
  
Knocking her chair over, she leaped up from her seat and drew her blaster, aiming it directly at the stranger's face. He drew at the same time, quick as a serpent.  
  
"I already said I don't know where he is!" she said, her voice steely. "Now, I'm going to give you two options. You're going to walk back into your fancy ship and forget you ever saw me here, or I'm going to shoot you."  
  
"Are you really going to?" he asked, his eyes taking her in slowly. She felt like a slave being appraised for its price. "There's something far more dangerous out there after you than just a smuggler after all. If I get you past the checkpoint, it won't be in a brig." He paused. "Or did you not notice the Imperial lurking by your shop?"  
  
Her eyes widened, and she scowled. For nearly a day and a half, there'd been increased Imperial presence around her hangar. The clones had been lurking, their faceless helmets focused on the street her shop was on, monitoring her traffic. Normally, she repaired personal ships and appliances, but also occasionally military convoys when their own mechanics were overwhelmed or a garrison stopped by to refuel on the planet. With influx of soldiers came an increase in business, but also Imperial scrutiny.

  
"Listen, my lady," he said, "If I could, I'd treat you to lunch at the capital and a picnic by the waterfalls, then I'd force you my ship and deliver you to my client. Unfortunately, time is of the essence here and you have two options. I smuggle you out of here and deliver you to my client-- but if you happen to escape after you're in his hands, I won't stop you. Or, you could let the Imperials seize you and hold you for ransom against your father. And I can assure you, your trip on their ship will be far less pleasant than it would be on mine."  
  
She repressed a shudder. Everyone knew what the Imperials did to their prisoners. Torture was the least of it, she thought.  
  
"What does your client," she spat the word like it was a curse, "want with me?"  
  
He shrugged. "I don't ask questions, I just deliver. And I prefer my goods to come along willingly. I'm not looking for a fight. I'm certainly not looking for your father. But my client is, and I think he thinks that you know someone who knows where your father is. Comply with me now, and--for a small price of course-- I'll help you get away from my client and the Imperials both."  
  
She took a chance and turned her back on him, turning down her heavy blaster from 'utterly eradicated' to 'charred.' She heard the rustling of flimsiplasts behind her as she hustled to her desk, quickly entered the code to the locked drawer and wretched out the credit chip glued to the false bottom. Her life's savings--nearly sixty thousand credits. If this fancily dressed man could be trusted-- and she didn't think he really could-- she would be free; free from the fear of being seized by the Imps for the sake of a man she didn't know, free from the drudgery and oppressive life in Alderaan under the thumb of the regime, free from everything.  
  
"Have you no personal loyalty to this client of yours?" she slid the credit ships and one or two other things into a well-loved canvas bag.  
  
He shrugged, glancing out the mirrored windows to where his ship was parked. "I don't usually deal in transporting sentients, but this time, the pay was too good to refuse."  
  
"And if I pay you more to take me away from here and leave me be?" she asked. It was still difficult for her to fathom passing the checkpoint. It had been a great impassable barrier to her for all her life, guarded by pitiless clones and unempathetic soldiers.  
  
"You couldn't afford that, Miss Teller," he folded his papers into his cloak and straightened his jacket— double-breasted with golden buttons, the kind the Senators wore on the Holonet.  
  
"Well then," she replied sharply, a grim grin utterly lacking humor twisting her lips. "Lead the way, Mr. Fancy Clothes. Take me to this client of yours, and when you get your money from him, then you'll take me."  
  
"On my smuggler's honor," he said as he strolled out the back door-- unlabeled. For her peace of mind, she chose not to question how exactly he knew where it was.  
  
"Oh please," she muttered, holstering her blaster. "Smugglers have no honor."

**Author's Note:**

> Drop me a line! Liked it? Hated it? Lemme know.


End file.
